The White Lady of Rohan
by Pyralis Dawn
Summary: Another short story-type fic written for a contest... It's about Eowyn and her situation in Rohan before the four travelers arrived.


**The White Lady of Rohan**

  
  
  
A young man could be seen sitting thoughtfully upon the edge of a high terrace of a building of white stone, his legs hanging over the edge, threatening to tip and land him in the empty street below should he swing them too much. The building he sat upon was a small hall, well away from the central point of the city upon the hill before the mountains. This hall was upheld by moderately sized pillars, which had small decorative circular stone rings surrounding them in a repeating fashion, going up and appearing about every two feet or so, which provided for excellent rungs for the young man to climb up to a high place as this. All around, at the very highest top where the outer walls met the roof, there was a border of shaped adamant, which had been carved into a mural of the likeness of flying standards, and rearing horses, upon which rode men in bright helms and shining spears.   
  
To the young man, this made for an excellent footrest.   
  
He wore upon his feet high boots of tan leather, of look to be suited will for riding. His mantle was mostly green with faded armor, and around his neck was clasped a golden cape, which mingled with his hair of the same shade as it flew about in the high wind. His skin was fair, and his eyes were sharply the color of stones, and of stern resolute, though suddenly they became soft and kindly as he looked behind him.  
  
There he saw a lady: his younger sister, to be precise. Young, though she was tall and proud. She had tried many times like this and before to quietly sneak up upon her brother and surprise him from behind, though always with a ready hand lest he should fall from the edge. But she knew there was no need for such worries, as he always caught her approach by the shadow she cast from the high sun behind her.   
  
The young man looked at her and smiled. "Come Sister! Sit here and converse with me, for it is lonely upon the terraces of such high places." She walked over and sat down beside him, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth. She sat and listened as he began to talk; idle talk of things she already knew: light faring of war, the theft of Shadowfax, the King's progressing weariness, and he subconsciously brought about the tender subject of their late cousin whom they both had loved dearly, and had lost but a day ago so painfully. But eventually he left the subject and went on again to other things. He poured out all of the thoughts on his mind and feelings in his heart, as he would have with his dear uncle and lord but for that slimy serpent, Grìma, who was always near his throne. "In honest I say this, not just out of spite," the young man said, "That serpent whispers deviled words into the ear of Théoden. But shall I disapprove of his counsel, then I become the twisted tongue, in his eyes. The King has left no will of his own." He looked over at his sister again for some comment, but noticed she was not looking at him, but over the city and had stopped rocking.   
  
"What troubles you so?" he asked concernedly. She did not reply, but he knew she had heard him. She kept looking out over the green plains of grass, the golden thatch of many small houses, her own braids of sun-colored locks floating about in the wind. She was in look very much alike to him, though maybe paler, but her spirit was like a yearling colt in spring: wild as fire. Yet she was not free to run about and graze like the colt; she was expected to be quiet and self-kept into check, waiting upon the elderly King. She took a deep breath and smelt the crisp air, and sighed. "Grìma has been more trouble to me of late." The young man quickly focused his attention upon her words. He needed a reason and only one reason to go punish Grìma then and there. If that filthy wurm tried once more to lay hands upon his kin… "For all of his sideways glances and odd stares," she continued, "thinking I do not notice but I do. Ever so much so and I hate him the more for it. I fear, - I fear to be always at Théoden's side, for that one of forked tongue is always close by. His twisted desire haunts me while I am in that hall, and I wish he would be gone, or I wish myself to leave."  
  
Her brother's eyes flashed with and unseen fire and he drew his sword from his scabbard, made for the edge of the roof and climbed back down the pillar rungs. But he heard a shout from above him. "Èomer! Brother, stop!" He looked up to see his sister peering over the terrace, calling with her hands cupped about her mouth. "Èomer!" she shouted again. "Go not out to draw your sword upon him, for then you shall be cast out, or have another's sword drawn upon your own head for the needless slaying of one of Rohan's people." Silence. And then he slowly sheathed his sword, but replied up to her with no less determination; "Nay, it would not be a needless slaying, for I would be returning the King his own will, ridding the Hall of evil and insuring the safety of my closest kin. Indeed, I would be but a small price for the riddance of such a vile thing as he."  
  
Again, there was a long silence, and the only sound they heard was that of the wind whistling in their ears. The young man looked back up at the stone horse mural. Among all of the ranks and spears of the others, there was one rider in the very center of the art. It was a man, young and strong, upon a horse of full and splendorous spoiling, and unusually bright and sophisticated armor. His eyes strayed then above the mural, and saw the face of his sister, also young and strong, a daughter of kings, though her expression now looked wan and sad.   
  
"No!" the silence was broken as she shouted from above. "No, you speak in haste and deny yourself value. He is not worth the swing of your blade, and I wish you not to suffer the consequence of such an action. Please brother, return and converse as you had wished." Her words softly lost voice until it was but a plea. The young man tilted his head further up, and used his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, his other hand still set upon the hilt of his sword. But he then felt a drop of something wet hit the back of his hand. Rain? No, for it was a dry and fair day. He looked back to his sister's face, and then realized it had been one of several tears that had fallen from here eye.  
  
Quickly then did he climb back up the pillar to the very edge of the terrace, and lifted himself back onto the roof. He knelt down in front of her and wiped the tears away from her eyes with his thumb. She looked up at him again, and though her eyes were dry she wore an expression that could not be described as only one expression, for so mixed were the emotions it projected. It was between the deep sadness she had felt inside for the last many months, the grief at the prospect of her brother being punished for murder (though it would have been a just murder), and anger at him for considering it. "Try considering once," she said slowly, "how I would feel if you just went out and got yourself killed in battle. I have no other brother! … I have no other friend." He put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. "I must be strong," she continued, "You go too often out upon militia commands and I must see to our Lord. I must hold strong," But even as she spoke, contradicting tears rolled down her cheek once more. Her brother opened his mouth to speak but she shook her head before he could make a sound.   
  
"It is not Wormtongue alone that is my trouble, for I know the kingdom of Rohan itself has fallen from its glory. And I would do all I can, but what can I do? Nothing, for they do not believe that I am fit for such 'man's work' as warfare. I can wield a sword better than many a man in the service already.' Her tears stopped; and her wild spirit flashed only for a moment in her eyes, but then she became wan again and cast her head down, looking down at the white stone roof she knelt upon.   
  
Her brother wished above anything else to find something- anything to say to comfort her, but found no words to fit. She kept on talking, though she did not lift her eyes. "I feel in part like Idril of Gondolin, though I be neither as fair nor royal; but a man of my Lord's high council has an uncouth fancy that makes my already low opinion of him worse, and both she and I are confined to the White and Golden cities, not to leave lest it become vulnerable to the outside fairings of the world." He then looked upon her in surprise. "How come you to know of that tale of Gondolin? Our records speak nothing beyond the eldest days of Eorl the Young."  
  
"How do you know of it?" she replied. "I have heard many tales from the Grey Wanderer." He said. "And though Théoden may not think so, he makes for excellent company. And of you?" "I learned it also of he," she returned. She then looked off again to the land where the sun shone brightly upon the grass. Her brother, being in a very perplexing position, tried to lighten her mood. "Well if you are Idril, then who is your Tuor to rescue you from foul Maeglin?" Her head snapped back quickly. "My Tuor?" she said. "I… do not know. There has not been one yet so." "Well, I hope myself he comes marching in some soon day, for I also wish to be rid of our 'Maeglin', and your happiness return." He said lightly, though truly he meant it. If the Grey Wanderer came again soon, perhaps, for he also had a loathing for that crawling wurm… And maybe even companions, for all know, that the more trouble Rohan is in he always brings many with him also.  
  
But his thoughts were disturbed and they both jumped slightly as they heard the blowing of loud trumpets from the Golden Hall upon the crest of the hill. "Duty calls with a loud horn," he said, giving her one last look. She managed a weak smile and said, "Do take care you return safely." He nodded and slipped back down the runged pillar with a parting whistle. He than walked back onto the empty street, and quickly vanished back up the path to Meduseld.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Once again a figure could be seen sitting upon the roof of the small, white stone hall, but this time not of the young man, but again his sister.  
  
It had been two days since her last sight of him going off up to Meduseld, only to be called off on a wild orc-chase, or so she had heard. He had reported back safely enough, but had apparently permitted some wandering rogues to pass freely through Rohan; and by the counsel of Grìma, the King had imprisoned her brother. And she was not permitted to do anything against it. Not even speak of it.  
  
She sat upon the roof thinking nothing, hearing nothing, and feeling nothing for the longest time. There was no wind today, and the sun beat down upon her with an evil heat instead of its normal warm light. She looked out to the gate of the city. It was a splendid and large gate, with golden hinges, and carvings of great horses and warriors upon the wooden timber doors. Then she noticed something: the doors in the gate, they were moving, swinging outward. But truly, how could this be? For in these days the gates were opened seldom, and she saw no great host waiting outside. She edged closer to the terrace. Yes, indeed the gate was opened, and outstepped was one of wardens, followed by the oddest of companies: She saw and older man, cloaked in grey and holding a staff. Behind him followed a tall and fairly man with a bow and fresh fletches. Also at his side was a short and swarthy man, clothed in many layers of highly fashioned leather and mail. He was spinning the head of an axe in his fingers. All of them wore cloaks of a shimmering indiscreet colour—  
  
She would have most likely noticed more about him, but for her attention was suddenly diverted. For suddenly she saw another: she saw him standing behind the rest. Him. Her Tuor.   
  
No, in look he was not of what the tales told of Tuor; for this man had dark hair and the raiment of a weary traveler, strands of hair askew upon his face. But it was not now appearance that made him Tuor, no indeed. He had an air about him, strong and kingly as she had not seen in her own royal halls for time long passed. She looked down and saw it in his face, which seemed determined and striking, as opposed to his otherwise ranging look. This man would free them; free her, she was sure of it.  
  
She quickly climbed over the edge of the terrace and down the runged pillar. As she reached the bottom, she saw the gate warden leading them up the hill to the Golden Hall. There they stopped, and he left them at the bottom of the stairs. They were now far away from her, and she ran out into the street and caught the warden by the arm as he was returning to his post at the gate. "Pardon Sir, what is your name?" "S-simbelmyna," he stammered, a bit startled at her sudden approach. "Who are those travelers?" she asked hastily. "They are wanderers who came in search of Théoden," He said with a raised eyebrow.   
  
She started at him, as if expecting a great deal more. He thought for a moment, and then continued: "An odd lot they are: an Elf and a dwarf who have a friendship beyond others. There is the Grey wanderer, though he is no longer gray, in the sense—I cannot say. There is also a man; he claims to be of Numenorian decent, and comes in the name of both Gondor and Arnor. He was a perplexing character: they all were, for that matter. Does this satisfy you Lady?" She nodded quickly. "Yes, thank you kind Simbelmyna. But I must now be at the King's side when they arrive, or he is at need. Thank you once more, I must go." The warden gave her a flicker of a grin, and she released his arm and swiftly ran off towards the high hilltop and the golden Hall.   
  
She was heading to the back doors of the hall as to hope she was not missed in her absence, but she gave a quick glance to the front stairs and entrance. They seemed to be conversing with the guards over a sword.  
  
Good. She would get into the hall before they. She would be able to be Idril, standing at her King's side to welcome Tuor to Gondolin.

END


End file.
